Everything, Everything was my first contemporary. And it promised so much.

But I don’t even know what happened.

The first half was cute and light and adorable and then the second half hopped on a train, shot off at 8596 mph, and left me in the dust wondering where in the world my feelings were. (I’m 100% cool with missing the train, though, because it ended up heading in a horrible direction and I’m still bitter about it yes ma’am.)

Throne of Glass was the second book I read this past August, and I almost had as much fun reading it as I would swimming and drowning in a sea of cake.

I’m aware that this series half lives in perennial shade and there’s very much a love-it-or-hate-it kind of thing running around it, so I’m sorry if it gave you murderous tendencies and you really just want me to choke it till it suffocates and dies because I only hate on it for like, a small majority of the review.*

If I wanted a book about a bitter, sadistic, traumatized Revenge Chick, a bitter, less-obviously freaky, just-as-traumatized Revenge Dude, and a REALLY OBVIOUSLY VENGEFUL Dude 2, I probably would’ve been climbing bookcases to get to this book but I would also probably need counseling and a really good doctor/psychiatrist/general HELP.

“Oh hey, all your favorite characters aren’t going to be in this one, mate. We’re just going to throw them out the window and WATCH THEM FALL AND LAUGH AND TAKE PICTURES while we shove some new fellows in your way. Pretend to like them, ok?”

Mhm, yeah, that’s every bookworms’ favorite situation. AND THAT’S WHAT MY BRAIN WAS SCREAMING AT ME. SCREAMING!! LIKE THIS!! WHICH IS RUDE!! INVASIVE!! TERRIFYING!! Thank the books above that everything my brain tells me is a lie. Yes, that’s it. I’ve disintegrated into a puddle of shame. RIP ME.

I want to reread Heartless, but I also know better than that. Villain origin stories are sad enough already…I don’t need to read one twice knowing FULL WELL what cruelty is coming my way. ASDFJKLASJK HELP ME.

OH MY. I savored every minute I spent reading A Gentleman in Moscow. Frankly, I’d rather reread it than write a review. It wasn’t anything like the book I was expecting. It was sweeter, softer, wittier, and way, way classier.

Because nothing can ever live up to this, THAT’S WHY. I did probably the absolute worst thing I could ever do besides smash an antique vase (or stab someone COUGH the butler did it COUGH) and decided to read Caraval right after I finished The Night Circus. #REGRET. It’s cruel on Caraval and it’s cruel on me.

nothing but the best

don’t be a jerk.

Unauthorized use and/or duplication (word piracy!! argh!!) of this material without express and written permission from this Marie Herself™ is strictly prohibited. Be nice and stay original or be smashed by multiple, large bookcases.